HIGH CARD ALL RAISE (PART 1)
Legend has it that the two strongest beings met in the heavens, seeking to end the contradiction that was their dual existences. Their battle took place on what was once the world’s highest mountain—Múspellskjálf. The mountain is now long gone, no longer lingering on the horizon. And yet, the fearsome battle that occurred atop its peak is still talked about to this very day.
The mightiest of the Old Dei—Artosh, god of war.
The strongest Dragonia—Hartileif the Final.
It was a time before the world as we know it existed. High above the summit overlooking the world below was the site of a heavenly duel from the distant past
“Answer me this—what is strength?” the god of war, Artosh, asked atop the summit of Múspellskjálf.
He was the manifestation of war. The embodiment of slaughter, the ultimate cycle of souls struggling between life and death in battle. He was the zenith. Incomparably strong.
“’Tis something thou shalt never know,” Hartileif the Final answered solemnly.
The Dragonia Ruler’s massive wingspan engulfed the skies. This was Hartileif, the oldest of all Dragonias, born from the mortal remains of a god. This unparalleled being who stood high atop Múspellskjálf was indestructible in both soul and body. He knew no injury; even the gods heeded his words—he, too, was the zenith.
A god and a dragon. The two strongest beings. Their battle began with a series of questions and answers.
“ Why is that?” the god of war asked.
“Because thou art the strongest,” came the Dragonia Ruler’s immediate reply.
“ Then what does it mean to be the strongest?”
“I cannot answer, for I, too, am considered the strongest of all beings.”
“ Dost thou believe the strongest being cannot know what it means to be the strongest?”
“Indeed. ’Tis something only the weak can comprehend.”
“ Then you and I shall not prove who is the strongest.”
“That would be impossible. In the same way one cannot know the unknown. As a filled glass can hold no more wine, endless victory naturally leads to questions left unanswered. ’Tis but an endless cycle.”
Silence fell—some would call it brief, others eternal. The two ultimate beings faced each other until time seemed to lose all meaning
“ Then we can indeed prove it!” the god of war shouted in rage. His voice shook the heavens, but the Dragonia Ruler held the earth together and replied:
“O powerless one. Only he who challenges the strongest can prove that he is the strongest. The day thou knowest defeat shall be the day thou understand what it means to be the mightiest being.”
The god of war shook his head. The Dragonia Ruler’s answer appeared to disappoint him. “ Thou claimest one must know defeat to know strength?”
“Verily. One cannot know true strength without experiencing true weakness. The same way one cannot know light without darkness.”
Artosh glared at the Dragonia and spoke quietly.
“ Then, almighty Dragonia.” He gripped his glittering spear and asked:
“ If I challenge thee and lose, shall I finally know what true strength is?”
“No. For thou cannot possibly lose to me.”
The god of war seemed to despair.
“Poor god of war. All those hopes and prayers offered to thee, and yet, this is why thy strength is so utterly empty. Thou dost not challenge me; thou merely seek the knowledge of the strongest being, but thou shalt never truly comprehend—yet I do not lament for thee.”
Hartileif understood that the spear clenched in Artosh’s hand—so hot it burned time itself—could melt his indestructible scales, flesh, and bone. And yet, Hartileif the Final spoke warmly as he faced impending death.
“I knew this day would arrive. Thou already defeated me so many years ago. Thus, I knew what I would say to thee on this day: Thou shalt know defeat because thou art the strongest. And when that time comes, thou shalt know what it means to be strong or weak.”
He suppressed the joy he felt from having finally reached this moment and hoped the god of war felt the same way.
Artosh struggled to conceal his anger, his hatred. “Nonsense,” he spat, his voice tinged with envy. “My victory is eternal. I shall remain on top till the end of time.”
“Indeed. This is precisely why thou shalt eventually know defeat,” Hartileif said, then made an empty addendum: “I wish thee the best of luck.”
He slowly spread his gargantuan wings. From the mountain’s summit, they seemed to cover every speck of land.
“I see this discussion was meaningless, dragon. You will soon forfeit your title of mightiest being.”
“’Twas a fruitful discussion, god of war. You shall soon learn what it means to possess that title.”
These were the final words spoken before there was only one strongest being left standing. Their contradicting existences collided; they blotted out the heavens and scarred the earth with a blue death.
That lofty peak Múspellskjálf was turned into the deepest of craters, which eventually became an ocean. This transformation is living proof of the legendary clash between zeniths, and the remaining raw energy continues to permeate the sea. The area today is a channel the land dwellers dubbed Thrymgap.
This cataclysmic event—what can only be described as a true legend—occurred one hundred and fifty thousand years ago.
…………
I killed many Elves, Phantasmas, and Fairies today. I quite enjoyed myself. I think it was a good day.
The Great War.
The gods vied for the throne of the One True God, pitting their creations against one another in an eternal battle. It was a never-ending cycle of hatred and slaughter among all races. The reddened sky was clogged with ash, the earth stained blue from dead spirits. The struggle that nearly brought the planet to its knees spread death everywhere; no land was without bloodshed, no sky without incessant cries of agony. The world was filled with despair, anguish, and loathing beyond even the greatest poet’s description. To call this era of bloodshed hellish was an insult to the word itself.
There were those, though, who were happy here. They liked the way the world was, and couldn’t imagine a better world even if they tried. Their delight was palpable. Indeed, one particular race enjoyed this war to its fullest extent.
“Can you believe this?! Sarakil stole my rarity level three kill!”
“Well, ‘stealing’ isn’t a nice way of putting it… How about, ‘I got ’em first’? Ha-ha-ha. ”
“Hey, hey, hey, apparently those filthy moles built the strongest ship in the world! Who wants to go exterminate them and their ship with me? ”
A race that needs no introduction—the Flügel.
These angels were in paradise, their own personal Elysium. Each one a sweet young girl with a smile on her face and an unquenchable thirst for blood. Their city was situated on the back of Avant Heim, a colossal Phantasma that drifted through the sky. It was an idyllic time. There was lush greenery, flower petals floating on the wind, and the tweeting of birds as beautiful angels flitted gracefully through the air. The Flügel spent their days singing songs of exultation.
My, my, my, heh-heh-heh! Giggle, giggle, let’s kill them all!
They lived life to the fullest in this brutal world, enjoying every ounce of the bloodshed around them. Who would have thought there was a group of beings having so much fun as the world spiraled toward its own destruction? Never mind that this particular race played a large role in turning the world into the hell it was. Just like any other day, the Flügel emulated love and peace and sisterhood as they exchanged disturbing banter.
…Absurd, isn’t it? Those who dwelled on the earth’s surface hung their heads in despair, cursing their decaying world as well as themselves for their own inadequacy, not knowing whether they would live to see tomorrow—but in the skies above, the angels were rejoicing. Such a stark contrast can only be described as absurd, right?
That’s just how the world works, though. If one person is happy, then somebody else is equally unhappy. That’s basically the nature of happiness—and yet! It was the Flügel who brought this world to the deepest pits of hell—nay, to a place even deeper! How unfair is it that they get to monopolize all the world’s happiness?! It’s exactly how capitalism works in our— Er, well… You know…
Let me start over—that’s just how this world works.
Flügel are the personification of absurdity. Hatred and loathing and murder was the flawed trajectory from which the world could not escape; it was why the Great War refused to end. The Flügel—and the ether from which their creator was made—were no different. In truth, there was nothing actually absurd about them. These women are the consequence of all living creatures’ desire to fight each other. The Flügel were born to spread war and embody death.
In other words: “You reap what you sow.”
It doesn’t make this world any easier to accept. The Flügel themselves could not care less about all of this.
Their nightmarish paradise in the sky echoed with one woman’s cheerfully dopey shout:
“Nyaaah!! Hey, everybooody! The girls and I are back! We’ve made our triumphant return!!”
The Flügel paused their brutal conversations and turned their heads to see the sky warping—a byproduct of Flügel shifting. The resulting high-pitched sound signaled their sisters had returned from the earth below victorious.
“Oh! Sister Azril, welcome hooome. ”
Another Flügel greeted the arrival with a smile, and many more shifting sounds followed. About one hundred more Flügel appeared, all covered in blood. The youngest of them, also known as the Irregular Number, was among them.
“Jibril! Welcome back!”
“Hey, hey! How many of the Elves do you think you offed this time?!”
The Irregular Number—Jibril—had remarkably long, prismatic hair and amber-colored eyes with cross-shaped pupils. Of all the blood-drenched Flügel who had returned from battle, she had the most commanding presence.
“I did not count how many rarity level two kills I claimed. I merely slaughtered everything in sight—including a Phantasma. ”
She licked the blood off her cheek and gave a smile that even a god would die for.
The crowd of Flügel cheered when they heard of Jibril’s quarry. They wanted to know everything—how many lives their sisters took, what kind of hellscape they produced on the surface below. The sisters got closer, excited to hear all the bloody details, but Azril hushed them. “Nyaaah! Hold it, everyone! We’ll tell you what happened later, after we tell Lord Artosh!”
The crowd reluctantly opened up a path, and the rest of the Flügel who had returned from battle followed Azril, the First Number, through.
“You sure are popular, Jibril.”
The Flügel next to Jibril sounded pleased. She was missing one of her eyes and wings, and her halo was broken to the point where it was barely visible. Her name was Rafil.
Long ago, the Flügel had once managed to defeat an Old Deus in battle. The battle took place before Jibril had been created, so she had only heard rumors about what happened. Rafil had led their army and succeeded in piercing the Old Deus and destroying its ether. The injuries she sustained were so severe that not even Artosh could heal them.
“No, I’m nothing compared to you, Elder Rafil…”
Jibril had a deep respect for Rafil, who still fought on the front lines despite her injuries. Rafil responded with an awkward chuckle and ruffled her youngest sister’s hair. “You don’t have to be so humble. You’ve done some incredible work. Be proud of what you accomplished and stand before our creator.”
“Nya-ha?! Raf! Since when did you get so close to Jibs?!” Azril scurried over and shooed Rafil away from Jibril. “No one’s allowed to pet my little Jibs but me! Stay back!”
Azril latched on to Jibril and hissed at Rafil like a cat.
“Elder Azril, please stop touching me without my permission. It’s getting quite annoying. ”
“Nyaaaah! Why, though?! Do you like Raf better than your big sister?!”
Jibril was smiling, but she stared at Azril like she was a piece of garbage. Azril slowly backed away after yelping in despair. Rafil smiled, slightly frustrated, and intervened.
“Y’know, Jibril, there’s no reason for you to be so nasty to Azril. Keep in mind that she’s our leader.”
“Forgive me, my elder, but I fail to see how anyone could possibly respect this thing.”
Rafil looked at Azril, who was on the floor, crying. “She didn’t used to be like that… Ah well.”
She heaved a sigh, and then the still blood-covered group proudly made their way to their creator—to announce their triumphant return.
Their creator was in the throne room.
The playful atmosphere from earlier was no more. This went for both the Flügel who had just returned from battle and their sisters who had flocked to listen to their tidings. Every single one of the angelic beings got down on one knee and lowered their heads.
The object of their worship was relaxing upon the throne. He was a boulder of a man, the strongest being in the world, the god of war, and the creator of the Flügel—the Old Deus Artosh. He gazed down at his winged pretties with his golden eyes, and his proud voice filled the air.
“ Ye have done well, my Wings.”
He stroked his rugged beard, the color of black steel, and continued mildly:
“ First Number, Fourth Number, Irregular Number, do tell me your accomplishments.”
At his command, Azril was the first to give her report.
“I shall start by sharing the results of the battle—the enemy has been destroyed; our forces saw twelve casualties.”
They had engaged the Elves in combat—specifically, a rite the Elves were testing out. This rite—the brainchild of one pesky Elf, Nina Clive—could control magical life-forms for military purposes. Should it function properly, it would potentially allow the Elves to hijack Phantasmas, Gigants, and eventually even Flügel.
Jibril was up next. She couldn’t hide the smirk on her face as she spoke.
“We showed those forest mutts how preposterous an idea it was to try and control us Flügel. Sometimes the pitiful dogs need a little reminder of which of us belongs on a leash. ”
The contents of Jibril’s report explained the smug look she had. The hundred Flügel troops under Azril, Jibril, and Rafil’s command had been unaffected by the Elven rite, and with smiling faces, they annihilated every Elf they saw: those who had compiled the rite along with the facilities they were using. Before returning to Avant Heim, the Flügel forces also annihilated the Fairies they assumed were assisting the Elves.
Rafil added something worth mentioning. “The Fairies, as you know, are located in a spatial phase boundary known as Spratul. As such, their villages are rather difficult to locate… We currently know the location of two such hidden villages. Also…” Rafil shot Jibril a glance. “…we engaged in combat with the Phantasma Cloud Vortex, which had been affected by an incomplete version of the new Elven rite.”
The Flügel who had just returned from battle all looked at Jibril.
“A thirty-woman squad led by Jibril attacked the Phantasma—and destroyed it.”
The rest of the Flügel in attendance were astonished upon hearing this. The Phantasma known as Cloud Vortex was a sentient fog—a literal natural disaster, a cataclysm capable of independent thought. Little was known about the creature other than that it was nearly impossible to defeat. Jibril continued as if this was nothing.
“It was as simple as destroying the core those brainless Elves were kind enough to point out for us. ”
Azril and Rafil were quite formal with their reports, but Jibril was different. She was smiley and more expressive. Mind you, this was in front of their creator. She didn’t even try to hide her smug joy.
The incomplete Elven rite had caused the Phantasma to go on a rampage. Jibril had deduced that the target of the failed rite was whatever the rite used to control the Phantasma—its core. And her deduction was correct; hence her satisfied grin. Going against a Phantasma usually ended with casualties climbing up into the triple digits
“Enemy casualties came to… Well, does it even matter? We eliminated every life-form we could detect. ”
Rafil followed with a general summary:
“Twelve of our number were injured, but none sustained mortal wounds. Their injuries are being treated as we speak.”
The Flügel had defeated a massive Elf army, a dangerous spell, and even an unexpected Phantasma. They annihilated their enemies, and all without any losses of their own. It was a victory in its fullest form.
Azril continued proudly:
“We were only able to achieve our initial prediction of zero fatalities despite the Phantasma’s unanticipated appearance thanks to Jibs—Jibril—and her quick thinking on the battlefield, Lord Artosh.”
She felt a smile tug at her lips as she listed her youngest sister’s achievements—specifically, defeating the Phantasma. She’d almost used Jibril’s nickname in front of their creator, but managed to catch herself before she did.
“Hmm ”
Artosh seemed impressed. He looked at the wounds covering Jibril’s beautiful, blood-soaked body; they certainly weren’t minor.
He then gave a deep nod of approval and said, “Well done, Jibril.”
“Your words are wasted on me, Lord.”
“Such feats cannot be achieved solely with the power I bestowed upon thee. ’Tis proof of how thou hast polished thy soul on the battlefield. Thy growth pleases me.”
Artosh’s jovial response caused a stir among the Flügel in attendance. They eyed Jibril enviously.
“ I am feeling generous today.” Artosh was grinning, something he didn’t do often. “I shall give thee a reward. Ask for whatever thou desire.”
“You have my gratitude, Lord—I shall take you up on the offer. ”
Jibril bowed her head as she spoke and then lowered into a brief curtsy before standing up straight.
As soon as she did, the air around her began to warp. A vast number of spirits surged around Avant Heim, causing him to rumble with surprise.
And then
A section of the city atop the Phantasma’s back was obliterated. The throne room was now a whirlwind of dust and light produced by the sudden, devastating Heavenly Smite.
Jibril, the one who had launched the Heavenly Smite, had shrunk down to the size of a small child—but her body quivered in pleasure.
“Ooooh! That did nothing against you! Ah-haaa! Ah, I’ll have to devise an even better attack to show you the next time we meet!!”
Azril mentally revised her battle report as she clutched at her head.
Jibril just doubled…tripled our casualties.
The Heavenly Smite Jibril used on Artosh left barely a scratch on him, but it did create a massive shock wave.
“Raf… Could you bring the girls who were injured from the attack just now to the Chamber of Restoration…?”
“Understood.”
Rafil moved quickly—she seemed used to this kind of situation—and teleported away with several injured angels in tow.
There was nothing to be surprised about. This certainly wasn’t the first time such an incident had occurred.
To be honest, everyone in the room saw it coming as soon as they heard of Jibril’s achievements on the battlefield and learned that she was going to see Artosh. Right before entering the throne room, they had readied their evasive and defensive magic. The majority of Flügel in attendance had shifted away the second they sensed Jibril preparing her Heavenly Smite. Thus, most of the injuries were on the light side. However
“Jiiiiiiiiibs. Got a second? Mind telling me why you thought it’d be a good idea to add more casualties?!”
The child version of Jibril cocked her head to one side in confusion.
“But Lord Artosh said he’d grant me a wish. You know I only wish to try to move him from his throne. Surely even you, regardless of your low IQ, saw this coming—?”
“How many times do I have to tell you not to do that?! It makes me look like a dummy for singing your praises!”
“Oh, no need to be so humble, Azril. It doesn’t make you look like a dummy—you already are one. ”
“ Good.”
Their creator uttered a single word, which reminded Azril that she was still in his presence. She immediately sank back down onto one knee.
“A fine attempt. But thou still hast much to learn. I look forward to thy next attempt, Irregular Number.”
“Ah-haaa! Your words are wasted on me. ”
If that was all their creator had to say, then there was nothing further for Azril to add. She began wearily giving orders to the Flügel who were still present.
“…Bring everyone who has their hands free to come help repair the throne room. Let’s make it look better than it did before.”
“Yes, ma’am…”
This was, well, more or less an average day for the Flügel during the Great War. The floating city of Avant Heim was like no place else on this desperate, war-ravaged planet.
…As absurd as it may sound, it was, in a sense, a peaceful time…
“Jibs… You’ve really gone and done it now—”
As soon as they left the throne room, Azril tried to scold Jibril in her child form—
“What?”
“Nyaaaah! Jibs gets eighty percent cuter when she’s all teeny tiny—wait, no! I’m actually really mad this time!!”
—but ended up yelling at her and rubbing her face against her cheeks. Azril may have looked angry, but that didn’t keep her from nuzzling against Jibril, who grumbled, “Is that so…? In that case, could you act more like it? Highly unpleasant as this is, I haven’t the energy left to break free or teleport.”
“I know that! That’s why I need to take advantage of this opportunity! I get to be mad and enjoy your cuteness—it’s two birds with one stone!”
Jibril couldn’t do anything to free herself, so she sighed and simply acquiesced. Azril continued to interrogate Jibril as her cheek rubbing intensified.
“What were you even thinking?! Why do you insist on Heavenly Smiting Lord Artosh?!”
Azril wondered how many times she’d asked Jibril this same question.
This was par for the course. It’s why everyone picked up on what was going to happen ahead of time and took the necessary precautions. It was just a part of being a Flügel at that point, like a family tradition. In the same way Artosh always enabled Jibril’s behavior with a smile, Azril always questioned why Jibril would do such a thing.
“Hmm, how should I put this…? Ah yes, let me think about it—”
And, as always, Jibril took a moment to think about her answer without any clue as to what she did wrong.
“I know my attacks won’t hurt him, but seeing them have so little an effect only makes me want to at least budge him off his throne all that much more—ah, Azril! Here’s an idea should you like to be useful for once! How about you and the rest of the girls all fire off your own Heavenly Smites, or maybe—? ”
“No maybes! How am I supposed to react when I hear you talk about harming our creator with a smile on your face?!”
“I think your usual dopey-looking expression should work just fine. What do you think?”
Jibril’s comment was a dagger to her elder’s heart. Azril fell to her knees; her eyes had glossed over. “Ugh, feels like my heart’s gonna give out. What are you going to do if Lord Artosh gets mad and attacks you back?”
Jibril would probably—no, definitely—get reduced to ash, if anything remained at all. Jibril herself knew this as well—but, still in her child form, she looked at Azril with the same baffled expression she always had when she spoke with her.
“Hmm? Personally, I believe that challenging Lord Artosh is precisely what he wants me to do.”
“Whaaat ? What do you mean by that?”
“Um, I mean exactly what I said… It’s rather self-explanatory, don’t you think?”
“When I look at Lord Artosh, I feel as if he wants me to try and kill him… Perhaps your eyesight is too poor to see this, though.”
.
“Jibs… You’re special. That’s why you get away with stuff like that—”
Azril slowly got to her feet.
“—but as leader of the Flügel, I can’t let this pass.”
Not only did Jibril try to kill their creator, she asserted that he actually wanted to be killed. Azril couldn’t tolerate such talk if Jibril really meant it, no matter how special she was. Azril looked down at Jibril emotionlessly, but Jibril replied:
“What are you going to do—purge me?”
She had a thin, provocative grin on her face as she looked back up at Azril.
“…………”
“I know you could destroy me if you really wanted to. Especially now that I’m in this form.”
She gazed down at her arms, which she could barely move after using up so much of her power, and laughed at herself. If that was the trust their creator put in Azril, then so be it
“It’s your right to do with me what you will. However—”
She met Azril’s eyes. The elder Flügel wasn’t nearly as bloodthirsty as Jibril herself.
“—just promise you won’t get mad at me when I fight back. ”
Bring it on. She was raring to go.
Jibril was the youngest of the Flügel, created when Artosh was in his prime. But she wasn’t nearly as strong as the First Number, Azril.
Azril was leader of the Flügel, so it was only natural that she’d be the strongest. Jibril, on the other hand, didn’t even have enough energy left to shift. Despite this—no, it was actually precisely why—she was champing at the bit. To borrow her elder’s words
I need to take advantage of this opportunity—to fight against the world’s strongest Flügel!
They squared off for a moment.
The Flügel onlookers slowly backed away when they noticed the immense tension emanating from the two of them. Things seemed ready to snap at any moment…
“ Awww, Jibs, you’re always so serious! If Lord Artosh is okay with it, then I’m okay with it! That’s what makes you so—darn—cuuute! ”
Azril instantly relaxed and went back to rubbing her cheek against Jibril’s.
After all, whatever Jibril thought—rather, the fact that she was capable of such thoughts—was only because their creator had bestowed upon her the right to do so. It meant she possessed a divine will beyond Azril’s own comprehension. Meanwhile, still glued to Azril, Jibril replied:
“…Then if you’ll allow me to be frank. That’s what makes you so—incredibly—boooring, nya-ha.” Indeed, Jibril sounded devastatingly bored.
“Ah!! Are you copying the way I speak?! I knew you loved your big sister, nya-ha!!”
“Right… So you ignore the boring part and go straight for the nya… I swear on Lord Artosh that I will never say it again.”
Azril ignored Jibril’s grumbling and proceeded to cheek-on-cheek her to her heart’s content.
“…I think that’s enough for one day, Azril.”
“Gnyaaa?!”
Rafil pried Azril off Jibril, sending the elder Flügel slamming into a wall, and picked up the younger Flügel.
“Jibril, it’s all well and good to exercise your free will, but at least consider the consequences first. I’m taking you to the Chamber of Restoration.”
Rafil scolded her like she would an actual child before walking away with Jibril in her arms. This was met with two similarly childlike responses.
“E-Elder Rafil! You needn’t worry about me! Another five years in that chamber and I might die from boredom!”
“Nyaaah! Raf kidnapped my child! Somebody stop herrr!”
The smaller Flügel child flailed her limbs (wings included) in Rafil’s arms. The bigger Flügel child peeled herself out of the broken wall and dragged herself across the floor in tears. Rafil eyed the two of them wearily.
“ Then I’ll leave you with Azril. But bear in mind that you’ll be spending the next fifty years automatically regenerating in her care ”
“Five years without Azril, you say? Count me in! ” Jibril reversed course before Rafil could finish her sentence.
“Noooo! Don’t take away my Jibs! Five years?! A world without Jibs is hell on earth!”
Which was ironic coming from the one responsible for the current, literal hell on earth.
Rafil looked at the two and thought: ………Ahh, so peaceful…
Azril watched as Rafil and Jibril shifted elsewhere. Despite scolding Jibril earlier, Azril couldn’t help but admit that she didn’t actually believe Jibril was pleasing Artosh.
By no means did Azril believe what Jibril said was right. Lashing out at their creator was preposterous, even beyond her own comprehension. That being said, Azril rarely saw Artosh smile like he did with Jibril—he’d had that same smile on his face when he vanquished Hartileif the Final. So Azril excused Jibril’s behavior. Jibril was fine the way she was. In fact
“That’s what makes her sooo darn cute!! I can’t take it anymore—I’m going after her!”
The loud thumping of a temporal shift followed, alerting the nearby Flügel to rush toward her.
“S-Sister Azril?!”
“What are you doing?!”
“What’s it look like?! If I fire off a Heavenly Smite of my own, I can spend the next five years together with Jibril, ah-ha, nya-ha! Chamber of Restoration, here I come—my own personal El Dorado!”
The Flügel looked at their leader and thought:
Is she legitimately dumb?
In the next moment, a beam of light pierced the crimson skies of Avant Heim.
They then reached the same conclusion:
That’s a yes…
I’m so glad to finally leave the Chamber of Restoration after five long years. I heard Azril fired her own Heavenly Smite and ended up in the Chamber as well. Apparently, she was under the impression that she would be able to stay in the same room as me… My poor elder really is such a dunce. The rooms in the Chamber of Restoration are all private, and since she is so much stronger than me, her recovery will take much longer. Every time I heard her wailing coming from her room, I was reminded of how stupid she is.
The earth was stricken with hellfire and death, spiraling through space toward its demise. A single shadow floated leisurely in midair and said to herself:
“Such lovely weather today. ”
Jibril cheerfully took in the sky above, which was obscured by a thick red mist. In each of her hands, she had—well…it was kind of difficult make out what exactly, but they appeared to be four heads.
One hour earlier…
“Hey, didja hear about the deviant Phantasma going around calling itself a Devil?”
“Deviant…? For the fifth time, it’s variant… Say it with me, ‘var-i-ant.’ Okay?”
“Whateverrr! Apparently the little deviant made something called the Four Guardians.”
“If this so-called Devil made them…they’re probably just higher-level Demonias, I’d imagine.”
“Mm-hmm. And get this—they’re going around claiming they’re stronger than the Flügel ”
The moment Jibril caught wind of this, she teleported to the “Devil’s” territory.
This brings us back to the four heads—they used to belong to the aforementioned “Four Guardians.”
“Well, that was a letdown. Stronger than the Flügel… What an absolute load of hot air…”
Jibril realized she should have known better. She heaved a dramatic sigh.
“They were just stronger types of Demonias. But even the strongest insect is still an insect. I shouldn’t have gotten my hopes up.”
…Should we feel sorry for the Four Guardians that got hunted down and slaughtered within the span of an hour? Or was it their fault for not watching their mouths, with their “stronger than the Flügel” business? At the end of the day, they were still the Four Guardians—a rare Demonia kill—so Jibril decided to bring them back with her despite her disappointment.
“That was my first battle in five years, so I was in tip-top shape… I was hoping it’d be a bit more of a challenge,” Jibril said with a pout.
She had teleported to the Devil’s territory and destroyed everything she saw. It just so happened that the so-called Four Guardians were caught in the destruction as well. It certainly didn’t feel like a battle. She barely batted an eye. With a few waves of her hand, the entire territory was cleaned out. Hardly a fight; at best, it was
“…A nice warm-up, I suppose. I want my battles to be a bit more thrilling—ah! Whoops!”
She accidently clenched her fist and almost crushed one of the heads (mind you, these used to belong to the strongest Demonias) so she switched them all over to one hand.
“Phew, that was close! Ahem, right. Battles are supposed to be !!”
After rearranging the four craniums, Jibril continued talking herself.
“They need to be all-out brawls! I want each and every blow to force me and my opponent to wrestle with the reins of death! There’s no fun in one-sided domination… It’s like pouring water on an ant-hill and watching them drown… Although that sounds like it’d be pretty fun, too! Geh-heh-heh. ”
Jibril had never actually done that to ants before. So she figured, why not try?
It brought to mind a famous Flügel idiom:
“There’s no time like the past.”
In other words: If you feel like killing someone, hurry up and go cut off their head!
Jibril immediately sprang into action. She started descending in order to locate an ant’s nest.
“ What’s this?”
She could see something far off in the distance. A massive white being was flying at a high speed just under the clouds. It was
“A Dragonia—hmm. But I’ve never seen a white one before… It must be my lucky day. ”
Jibril licked her lips. Her eyes glinted dangerously.
As far as she knew, the only Dragonias left after Artosh had vanquished Hartileif the Final was Aranleif the Ultimate and his Followers. However, Aranleif and all of his Followers were the color of nighttime, and Hartileif had no Followers of his own. That meant the white dragon ahead of her either had no Ruler, or perhaps
“A Follower of Reginleif the Enlightened?! Now that’s the kind of head I want to take home! ”
Jibril sped up; she wanted that Dragonia’s head for herself. Four Guardians, who? They were just a nice warm-up for her! She tossed aside their dangling heads, and they plummeted toward the ground.
A Flügel had never gone up against a Dragonia alone and won.
This also piqued her interest; wouldn’t it be fun to be the first?! Jibril didn’t hesitate and flew straight toward the gargantuan Dragonia. Legend had it that no Dragonia had ever taken Hartileif’s spot ever since his demise at the hands of Artosh. Jibril couldn’t help but wonder why Artosh always looked so bored even though he had destroyed the strongest Dragonia ever to live. The thought soon left her mind when she realized
“…I’ll know for myself when I defeat one. As they say, a kill is worth a thousand thoughts. ”
She rattled off another Flügel idiom and sped up even further.
But this Dragonia was fast. Really fast. He was getting farther and farther away from her. She flew as quickly as she could, but the distance between them didn’t close one bit. Then it dawned on her: There was no way a being of such mountainous scale was physically flying through the air. This wasn’t flight, but rather the surrounding space leaving the dragon behind as it moved. The dragon itself was a fixed coordinate that defied the mechanics of space-time.
Speed wasn’t the issue there. It didn’t matter if Jibril moved at the speed of light; she wouldn’t ever catch up to the Dragonia.
What was she to do? She thought for a moment before a smile appeared on her face.
“Oh, silly me. I just need to give him a friendly greeting. ”
With a wave of her arm, she sent the Dragonia her friendly hello. The space around the Dragonia distorted until neither sound nor light could keep up. The nearby mountains were reduced to rubble from a deafening roar that shook heaven and earth alike.
This was Jibril’s way of saying hello.
“ Pardon me for bothering you during your flight. My name is Jibril.”
She lowered herself toward the scorching crater where a mountain range once dotted the landscape. In the middle of the crater was the dragon, looking up at her.
Remarkable, she thought.
The draconic being was virtually unscathed, which was to be expected, given his magnificently indestructible body. The light from the embers around him reflected off his pure white scales, as perfectly stainless as a glistening glacier in the northern seas. Most stunning of all was his sagely gaze, as if he wasn’t looking in the same timeline—as if he was gazing upon an unknown something far in the distance. This was certainly none other than a Dragonia, the most perfect living thing in this world.
There was a dignity to the creature that was strikingly godly, more so than any of the Old Dei (with the exception of Artosh). The white dragon looked at Jibril and began to speak.
“FOOLISH, FRAIL-FEATHER, FOLLOWER OF THE EMPTY GOD, I’LL FORGIVE THEE BUT ONCE. —BEGONE.”
Jibril couldn’t understand what he was saying, but upon hearing his draconic utterance, she and the world around her—everything in the Dragonia’s line of sight—were blasted into pieces and blown away.
The Dragonian tongue was inherently magic, each word a command to the laws of nature. Should they say “death,” everything within the vicinity was reduced to corpses. Should they say “shatter,” everything was smashed to smithereens. This was the planet’s primal tongue, vestiges of the same energy used to create the world.
There were a variety of different names for the Dragonian tongue, such as the universal language or the language of creation, but no being other than the Dragonias themselves understood its essence.
“ Cough……hack……wheeze……”
Jibril knew that to fight against such mighty power, she would need to hit this Dragonia with something even mightier. She’d collected nearby spirits along with others from her spirit corridor to defend herself from the devastating attack.
“ Well…that was much stronger than I expected… What…happened?”
With the same endearing grin plastered on her visage, she cocked her head in genuine bewilderment.
A single word was all it took to wound a lethal weapon (read: a Flügel) from head to toe. Something was off, though. After being hit with such a powerful attack, this Flügel was laughing. The Dragonia stared at her warily and then asked:
“ Art thou alone, frail-feather, follower of the Empty God?”
He spoke to Jibril in her native tongue. Unfortunately, he phrased his question poorly—or perhaps he phrased it this way on purpose—and simultaneously pushed two of her buttons.
“…You dare call Lord Artosh an ‘empty god’ AND you belittle my wings…? I must say, you’re quite the brazen lizard. ”
The blood-drenched angel was even more murderous now. The dragon’s attitude shifted; he was no longer hostile or confused, but instead…curious.
“Surely you do not seek to challenge me on your lonesome. What is thy bidding, frail-feather?”
Something within Jibril audibly snapped.
“Surely, I do seek as much. I shall be straightforward with you.” She bowed and offered a smile twisted in rage. “I want to throw you off your sky-high horse so that you sink to the surface below… More specifically, I wish to rip your head from your shoulders. It’s not every day you encounter a talking, flying lizard. ”
Jibril was fairly peeved—quite livid—flat-out furious, even. Her body quivered as she attempted to keep herself from lashing out at the dragon. She was making herself quiver so that she could regain the energy she’d lost defending herself from the dragon’s one-word attack. She needed all the energy she could muster to kill him in one blow.
Jibril wasn’t thinking about the consequences.
The white dragon, with his massive wings that spanned the reddened heavens, watched the angel in silence. He gazed upon her small wings as if he were an archaeologist who had just discovered a rare fossil. A few moments passed before he seemed to realize something. He then spoke.
“How fascinating. To think I might see the day when a troubled set of feathers would appear before me. O, the wonders never cease during a life eternal.”
He sounded impressed. This time, it was Jibril’s turn to be confused.
“Troubled…? There’s not much troubling me, other than the fact that I can’t understand this filthy lizard’s Flügel.”
The dragon’s all-seeing eyes showed what appeared to be joy—and then the air began to vibrate.
“I see the Empty God has finally begun questioning the significance of slaying Hartileif.”
It took Jibril a few moments to realize that the billowing vibrations were her opponent’s laughter. She started laughing as well, and with a dark grin, she finally realized: This dragon was unspeakably powerful. She flinched ever so slightly, then asked herself a question: Does it always take me this long to recharge my energy?
––I’m going to kill him right now.
Jibril rushed to squeeze as much spirits as she could out of the atmosphere.
“I’ll ask thee, feathers. Dost thou believe thou canst defeat me?”
Can you defeat a dragon who can destroy the world with a single sentence? the white dragon who dominated the skies asked the angel. Jibril tilted her head back toward the heavens, and with an even more twisted grin than before, she replied:
“It seems unlikely that I’ll be able to communicate with a lizard such as yourself. That question is ridiculous, past the point of absurdity. But, since you went out of your way to ask, I’ll go out of my way to answer—of course I do.”
All the while, Jibril withstood the hurricane-force gales generated by the dragon’s wings.
“However…,” she continued, “I’m not particularly interested in whether I can.”
She didn’t care about the outcome of their match. She only cared about one thing.
“I’ve been presented with a chance to destroy a powerful opponent; I have no choice but to accept the challenge. ”
That’s what war is. The kind of war she craved: one that whittled away at her very soul.
The dragon understood her clear-cut answer.
But Jibril didn’t understand the dragon.
Something about his behavior was off. He was contradicting himself. His wingspan nearly blocked out the heavens; it seemed as if it could block out the entire planet. This was part of the dragon’s overwhelming presence, and yet, his presence was at odds with his kind demeanor.
“I shall help thee seek the answers to questions thou dost not realize thou hast.”
“Are all lizards this spiritual? I have no desire to listen to your preaching, so—”
With a sinister grin, she answered the dragon’s request.
“—let us do battle. Let us kill and be killed. Let’s vanquish each other. ”
Her words were laced with insanity, ecstasy, and rage.
With every fiber of her being, Jibril summoned her greatest Heavenly Smite—
“SHATTER.”
—but before she could unleash her attack, her foe uttered his second draconic word. That was all a flap of the wings and a draconic mumble.
“ Huh?”
Almost reflexively, Jibril used her Heavenly Smite, but not to attack the dragon. She used it in an attempt to cancel out the word he had just finished speaking, the phrase that leveled the area around them.
“Our meeting was not fortuitous. We have misjudged each other.”
She couldn’t stop the destruction. Her consciousness began to fade, and all she could hear was the dragon’s voice.
“Try again some other day, feather. Once we come to understand each other, challenge me as often as thou like. Do not fail me now.”
He left her with a friendly warning. Jibril was absorbed into a vortex of destruction at the cellular level. Barely able to maintain her form, the last thing she remembered seeing was the dragon flying away.
Jibril…a Flügel…a god-killing weapon…was powerless to stop something far more powerful than herself. She lost consciousness.
I was quite upset after I lost to that Dragonia. I spent another seven boring years in the Chamber of Restoration, but at least it gave me that much time away from Azril. That part was rather nice.
…………
Seven years passed before Jibril emerged from the Chamber. She had been unconscious for more than half the time she spent there. The first thing that left her mouth the moment she emerged was:
“Hmm, I wonder why I lost… Quite peculiar, really. ”
As she speculated to herself, Azril caught sight of her from far away and audibly gasped.
“ Jibs, you can’t be serious!! I’m gonna bop you on the head! Why did you think you could beat a Dragonia?!”
“Oh, Azril. You’re still alive after seven years? What a shame.”
“Jibs… You’re gonna make your big sister up and cry!”
Azril was already sprawled out on the ground and crying when a second angel brushed her aside.
“Jibril… I’d also like an explanation.”
It was Rafil. “Brush aside” wasn’t entirely accurate; rather, she demi-shifted on top of Azril, who squawked in pain. Rafil ignored her and questioned Jibril with a puzzled look on her face.
“What were you thinking…going up against a Dragonia? Maybe we trusted you too much—I may have to reevaluate your position.”
Rafil was much more dignified than the self-proclaimed elder sister kicking and screaming beneath her. But Jibril didn’t have any idea why they were reprimanding her.
“Well, I knew it wouldn’t be easy—”
Jibril had fought Dragonias on multiple occasions, but only ever with a group of fellow Flügel. They had defeated more than just a few—Jibril should have been fully aware of the difficulty involved.
Dwarves claimed that a single scale of a Dragonia was more formidable than one thousand warriors. Its flesh and bones were so tough that it normally required fifty to one hundred Flügel to put up a fight. There wasn’t a substance on the planet harder than its hide, and thus, even its remains lasted for an eternity. The Dragonias were indeed strong, possibly even rivaling a lesser Old Deus.
Jibril didn’t believe for an instant that she could easily defeat such a creature. She would’ve been satisfied if her strongest Heavenly Smite managed to peel off a scale or two.
She knew this, and yet, something bothered her.
“Fifty to a hundred Flügel can eke out a victory, but I could barely do anything alone… Hmm?”
She was powerless against the dragon, and the nature of her defeat wasn’t that simple. Not only did she fail to land a single strike on him, she wasn’t even sure if he had actually attacked her. The tiniest of birds are at least capable of holding their own against a falcon. Jibril didn’t care that this encounter almost cost her life.
She tilted her head in thought and muttered, “I’m not satisfied with how it went.” Rafil sighed.
“I might as well destroy that Dragonia! What do you think, Azril?”
Still flailing beneath Rafil’s feet, Azril shouted, “I think you’re insane! You almost died, ya know?!”
“If you say no, Azril, then that means the right answer must be yes. I’m heading out to search for the dragon. Thank you. Elder Rafil, I’ll be right—”
“Jibril.”
Rafil stopped her from teleporting away.
“…Answer me seriously. It was a coincidence that we even managed to save you.”
Rafil fixed Jibril with a piercing glare.
“You just spent seven years in the Chamber of Restoration. You should be thankful you have a stalker. Had Azril not been following you, it would’ve been too late to save you… I should add that our Flügel leader planted herself in front of the Chamber for all seven years, crying nonstop. It was really annoying, honestly.”
“Nyaaah! You don’t have to tell her that! You’re making me sound like an overprotective idiot of a sister!”
“Azril, you’re not right in the head. What are you if you’re not an overprotective idiot of a sister?” Rafil retorted. She was basically asking Jibril to be thankful to the angel freaking out beneath her feet. Jibril clearly felt that was unreasonable, but Rafil continued.
“I’m going to ask you one more time: What were you thinking challenging a Dragonia to a battle?”
Jibril knew that her much-respected elder might look down on her depending on how she answered. And yet…she still genuinely had no idea what she was being criticized for.
“My apologies, Elder Rafil, but please allow me to ask you a different question.”
Therefore, Jibril was going to respond with a question of her own:
“What makes you believe I can’t defeat a Dragonia by myself?”
Azril (who was still under Rafil’s feet) was the one to answer her. “That’s just the way the world works! Do you need someone to knock some sense into you after all this time?!”
Rafil gave a small nod to Azril’s statement. “Even a single scale of the weakest Dragonia harbors at least the maximum amount of spirits a Flügel is capable of using. That means just two of a Dragonia’s scales are as powerful as your average Heavenly Smite, Jibril. Multiply that by the tens of millions of scales on a Dragonia hide… You’d need to be infinitely stronger to even hope to penetrate their defenses. I know you know this.”
Jibril did know this, and yet, she’d challenged the dragon fully aware of this fact. So why?
“That’s not possible.”
She answered without hesitation.
Azril and Rafil were shocked to see Jibril reject their notion of common sense. Jibril continued her explanation as if it were something obvious.
“If what you say is true, then we would need a lot more than fifty Flügel to penetrate a Dragonia’s scales. Even if we managed to do so as a group, there’s another layer of tough flesh and bones underneath that scaly hide. If Flügel aren’t strong enough to penetrate all of that, then I’d like one of you to explain how we have been able to defeat Dragonias in the past.”
“…Hmm.”
“Nyah…nyaaah… I, uh…”
Azril couldn’t admit she didn’t know the answer to that question. Flügel can penetrate a Dragonia’s defenses with enough numbers, but that was the extent of their knowledge of the race. This is because when a Dragonia dies, its body disappears in a fiery blaze. Nobody knew anything about how their scales or defensive magic worked. All that the Flügel did know was that they could overpower the dragons as a group.
However—Jibril had a theory based on that lack of knowledge.
“If Flügel can defeat Dragonias with numbers, then I should have been able to do at least some damage against a Dragonia on my own. But, as you already know, that was not the case. So I’m trying to figure out what happened ”
She wasn’t happy that she had to explain something so painfully obvious. It confused her—why couldn’t they understand where she was coming from?
“There must be some kind of condition that’s met when we attack as a group. A way to defy the Dragonian tongue. There has to be, or else it makes no sense why I have been able to defeat other Dragonias in the past, but I could do literally nothing against this one alone. Is that any easier for you to understand?”
Azril and Rafil were silent for a moment. The latter broke this silence with a chuckle and a sigh.
“Fine, sounds logical to me. If that’s how you feel, youngest sister, then you’re free to do whatever you please.”
“Thank you, Elder Rafil.”
She curtsied to her respected elder, the one who understood her logic.
“Hey! Raf! Whaddaya think you’re doing?! You trying to get Jibs killed?!”
“ Oh, sorry, Azril. I forgot you were still here.”
“Why do you guys all treat me like this?!”
Rafil finally got off Azril, who leaped right to her feet.
“Attention all Flügel! This is an order! Capture Jibs!”
Azril knew that Jibril was going to head straight for the Dragonia and challenge him to another match. She did not know, however, if she would make it out alive this time. There was no way she would let her go through with it !
“Sorry, Jibril!”
“She is our boss, after all.”
A legion of Flügel appeared out of nowhere to capture Jibril, but she met them with a smile.
“I’ll tell you ladies where the heads of the Demonia Four Guardians are if you restrain Azril for me. ”
The Flügel all turned on their heels in unison.
“Sorry, Sister Azril!”
“Sorry, boss! Brace yourself!”
All at once, the horde of angels set themselves upon Azril.
“Nyaaaah! What’re you guys doing?! I’m your leader! Why are you treating me like this?!”
No one was sure if they should answer that question. Even Rafil looked away when she heard it. Everyone was silent—except for one smiling angel.
“If you must know, I could spend the entire night listing the reasons, but if I had to pick a single one—”
Jibril said plainly what everyone else wanted to but could not.
“—perhaps your lack of charisma. ”
The news hit Azril like a ton of bricks.
With that, Jibril disappeared, leaving a shell-shocked Azril in her wake. Azril broke free from her fellow angels’ restraints and squatted down into a thinking position.
“Do I…lack…charisma…?”
There are times when silence speaks louder than words. And this…was one of those times.
Artosh was seated on his throne. The large doors to the throne room—a place Flügel normally entered by shifting—were kicked open. Azril came stomping toward her creator in a fit of tears.
“Waaah! Lord Artosh! Everyone keeps saying things like I have no charisma, and that I’m a stupid idiot!!”
Artosh set his eyes upon his feathered followers’ leader, who was bawling on the floor before him. The almighty god, the strongest of the gods, her creator, shared with her his divine words:
“ Why doth the truth upset thee so?”
Right, then. I’d better just take my own life.
Azril was so shocked by the words that—with an empty smile—she readied a Heavenly Smite to use on herself—
“I apologize for the fuss, Lord. Please forgive my intrusion.”
—when Rafil appeared out of nowhere and slammed her through the wall of the throne room. Once their two-woman routine was over, Artosh solemnly asked Rafil:
“ Fourth Number. Has it broken?”
“Your consideration will no doubt please her immensely. She is merely unaware of how bothersome the Irregular Number finds her.”
Artosh scoffed. With a look of satisfaction about her, Rafil turned to leave the chamber—but then a thought crossed her mind.
“…Lord, if you would permit me to question your most profound intentions.”
Artosh’s dignified gaze silently urged her to continue. Rafil responded by getting on one knee and asking:
“ Why do you call Azril, first of our number, an ‘it’?”
Artosh didn’t move a single muscle. His stonelike countenance—full of boundless wisdom and acumen—showed a hint of fatigue. The creator, with his indomitable will, capable of changing the fate of the world with his utterances, answered her.
“I have no particular reason. Nyah.”
…………
I see.
“How sublimely profound, Lord. You never cease to amaze me.”
Rafil was shaking after receiving a revelation of biblical proportions from her creator. She bowed and made her way out of the throne room to find Azril still causing a ruckus.
(Lord Artosh a god among gods, king among kings, the strongest and most supreme being.)
His divine will was all-encompassing, omnipotent. He knew all. So it was only natural for him to understand all forms of jest.
It explained his choice of words.
“Ugggh, I hate everyone… I’ll show you allll…” Azril grumbled.
He’d meant that Azril’s entire existence was a joke.
Rafil looked down at Azril weeping on the ground like a child. Without much thought, she kicked the angel aside and glared at “it.”
“…Quit it with those crocodile tears already and get up.”
“They’re not all crocodile tears! You’re so mean, Raf! I can’t stand youuu!!”
Azril was sprawled out on the ground with large tears pouring out of her eyes like a spoiled brat.
“…Raf… Do you think Jibs hates me?”
Rafil let out a big sigh. Was Azril seriously asking her this question? You’re so awkward, she thought before replying:
“The way I see it, Azril, is that as the First Number, you’re almost too perfect… You need to try being a little more flexible. At least, that’s likely one of Lord Artosh’s wishes.”
A part of Rafil also felt for Azril.
“Jibril will never be able to tell that you like her with that act you’re putting on.”
“……… But…this is all I know…”
Azril, the first of the Flügel, was responsible for watching over and commanding the Flügel born after her. She was a tool for bringing her creator victory in battle, the cause for great destruction throughout the world. Even when faced with certain death, she would lead as many Flügel as required into war with a smile if it needed to be done to actualize her creator’s will.
But then there was Artosh’s special creation: the Irregular Number.
For reasons unknown to Rafil, Azril had changed ever since that day Jibril was created. Only Artosh knew what he wanted from Azril and Jibril, but it was evident that Azril had particularly exceptional feelings for Jibril. She was a special unit; they couldn’t afford to lose her.
Rafil wondered if those feelings had developed into this strange obsession Azril had with Jibril. This obsession contradicted Azril’s original purpose; it was likely the reason she struggled to communicate how she felt about the Irregular Number.
With a smile, Rafil offered Azril her hand, which she used to slowly prop herself up. Rafil looked at Azril and muttered:
“Jibril would freak out if she knew her dumb oldest sister was the reason I lost my wings.”
A lack of charisma, she’d said… Indeed, anyone who didn’t know how Azril used to be might think that about her.
It was maintained that Rafil had been the one to puncture an Old Deus’s ether in a past god-killing battle. This wasn’t the entire truth, though.
What really happened was Azril used Rafil as a shield, then as a weapon to penetrate the ether. She never showed any signs of remorse after the fact, either. She’d merely smiled and, what’s worse
Rafil grinned uncomfortably as she remembered what Azril had said to her.
“…‘Raf, you’ve been super helpful. Now it’s time for you to die’…right?”
Charisma? Who needs that when you’re the strongest Flügel in existence, who will do anything to win? Azril used to strike fear into the hearts of all—including Rafil—but…
“Nyah, nyaaah…uh, I’ve apologized like a hundred times. Wouldja forgive me already…?”
Azril was hanging her head down low in dejection.
This was the Flügel who had never apologized, not once, over thousands of years. And now—she’d been this way ever since Jibril appeared on the scene. It was quite fun to tease her. The best part was—Azril thought she hadn’t changed a bit. Isn’t that rich?
Rafil knew that Jibril was different from the rest, but perhaps every Flügel was constantly changing
“ Ah……”
“Nyah…wh-what, are you looking to pick on me some more?!”
Rafil snickered as Azril backed away from her in fear. Then something seemed to vaguely click into place within Rafil’s mind:
In Artosh’s eyes, everything—including the concept of war and even the world itself…
…was nothing more than a joke.
Jibril was quite powerful.
The same went for all the Flügel. They were incredibly powerful, some of the most powerful beings in all of existence. But—they were by no means the most powerful. That title remained their creator’s. It was a universal and absolute truth, regardless of how strong Jibril ever became. The same way that white Dragonia considered her weak—it was all relative.
“Hmm… I may have just come up with an interesting theory.”
The theory was the answer to a question Rafil held for hundreds of years. Her almighty creator, Artosh, was the vanquisher of gods. A supreme being capable of manipulating the world itself. Rafil was hit with a fleeting thought.
Why did he make her or Jibril or Azril—or any of the Flügel?
(I know it’s shameful to question my creator’s divine intentions, but—)
Rafil felt that attempting to understand Artosh’s godly will was a form of worship in its own regard. She was by no means trying to judge him.
(—maybe he was just…bored?)
Her creator was the god of war, the strongest of the gods. He had the world in the palm of his hand—so then what? What happens next? His sole desires were ceaseless calamity and never-ending war. So he planted seeds of chaos throughout the world.
That was likely why he made the Flügel. In which case…
Rafil had a different thought at the same time. If her theory—that everything was a joke to Artosh—was correct, then perhaps he had higher expectations for Jibril and the rest of the Flügel. So then why did he let Jibril challenge a Dragonia despite her being the weaker opponent? What part of his divine will allowed her to think that way?
The strong look down on the weak?
Rafil didn’t know what her almighty creator sought in doing this, but
“Azril, you really are hopeless.”
“Nyah?! Where’d that come from all of the sudden?! Uggghhh! I’m done!”
Azril, with her hands covering her face to hide her tears, shifted elsewhere in space. Rafil couldn’t help but laugh to herself.
We’re just jokes—and if that pleases our Lord, then it is an honor. But in that case, I think I’ve figured out why our Lord saves his smiles for Jibril.
“I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t jealous… But this is what Lord Artosh desires. It’s Jibril’s special privilege.”
She knew Jibril would fulfill their creator’s wishes. In other words
“…Defeating a Dragonia on her own…would redefine common sense.”
What would that mean? What did their creator, the strongest being in the universe, desire?
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